


Hematolangia

by WashedAwayCloud (HowlingSentinel)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, BDSM, Drabble, F/M, Smut, tw: bleeding, tw: blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowlingSentinel/pseuds/WashedAwayCloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble Prompt on Tumblr from a Roleplay partner: Write smut about our characters featuring blood play. Read at your own risk</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hematolangia

**Author's Note:**

> This particular Doctor has changed his name to Kyrian, because he's that far displaced from the Doctor. This can be read as a stand alone (or I wouldn't have posted it), so don't worry about not knowing the Corsair and his full backstory/relationship. Enjoy!

Hematolagnia: I’ll write our characters having sex with blood play

It hadn’t taken the Corsair and Kyrian long to fall into sync, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit that. He was earnest and alluring in his own dark way, and like a moth, she’d been drawn to the deepest dark near the flame. It wasn’t until after Ilori was born that she’d spoken out about her desires, darker than rough and tumble sessions with silk scarves that left no marks, and rough measured thrusts that gave her a taste of what she wanted.

The conversation had brought a knowing look to Kyrian’s eyes, smirk to his lips and he’d simply nodded by way of agreeing. They hadn’t talked about it since and the Corsair was walking through life on eggshells. Sex with them had never been scheduled, never anticipated by either party. It just happened. 

Today was no different; she was in the kitchen when he came to her, washing dishes and watching the snow fall outside. His arm sliding around her waist and pulling her against his solid form had wrenched her from her thoughts. A kiss and gentle bite on her shoulder, making her hands grip the edge of the skin, body going up in flames from the simple actions. It had been too long.

“Come upstairs, Cor.” The words are breathed across her skin and make her shiver, little sparks of pleasure dancing up her neck and over her shoulders. “I’ll be right there.”

“Bring a knife.” Kyrian is gone as quietly and as fast as he came. Leaving Cor gripping the sink and her knees shaking, a dull throb starting between her thighs. Abandoning the dishes, swiping a tea towel to dry her hands on her way out, the Corsair heads to her TARDIS. She wouldn’t use one of the knives in the house for this. No, she’d use one of hers.

The halls echoed greeting as she strode into the “Library” of her home, fingertips sliding against the paneling as she made her way through the console room. The Arsenal is much the same as it has always been, but there is a knife here she wants, small, sharp, usually kept in her bedside table, retired after Kyrian had made it clear she had no need of it. Her slim fingers wrap around the handle, pulling it from the display case and she’s off on shaking legs toward the house proper. There are alcohol wipes in the bathroom of their bedroom… Thing’s they’ll need later.

Kyrian is waiting for her, when she arrives, the first three buttons of his oxford undone; jeans slung low on his hips as always. The jeans were a new thing; he’d gotten tired of trousers. She didn’t care right now, standing in the door, watching him with wide eyes. 

“Just going to stand there?” He taunts, voice a promise, lips pulling into a smirk. 

Shaking her head, the Corsair pulls herself together; she wasn’t so needy for him that she’d let that taunt lie. Sauntering to ward him, the flat of her knife rests against her leg, glints in the light.

“Course not, we’re going to play, aren’t we? Can’t do that from the door.” The words are spoken almost directly against his lips; she’s so close by the time she speaks. Their lips press together, languid, familiar; they know how to slide their faces so the angle is just right. It’s good, that familiarity, but she wants more today. This kiss changes, subtly at first, the Corsair nips at his lip, hard enough to draw a surprised grunt and the light tang of blood from her lover. He doesn’t pull away, one hand grasping the back of her neck, the other on her hip. She’ll have a bruise there, and that thrills her.

When the need for more than a press of lips and bodies over takes her, the dark time lady pulls away. Her hands come to Kryian’s shoulders; push him over toward the bed pointedly. Impishly he simply sits on the edge, his hands plucking at the buttons of his shirt, pulling it from his trousers and discarding it. Like wise, the Corsair has her shirt up and over her head in a quick move. The lace of her bra gives him a peekaboo look at what lay beyond. Breasts that he’s touched, kissed, given all the attention in the world to, bitten, teased. The memory makes her skin prickle and the shirt is tossed to the floor, knife deposited on the bedside table before she climbs astride his legs. 

Her hands cup his face, turn it away, and her lips find the sensitive skin below his ear, her teeth worry at it, make him groan, those hands of his sliding up and down her sides, nails raking gently at her skin. The Corsair isn’t happy until she’s got the pale, freckled man flat on his bad, her hands making short work of his trousers while her lips attack every bit of skin they can reach. He’ll have a fair few love bites tomorrow, along with the pattern she has planned in her head. It’ll be beautiful, and god, she’ll jump him again in the morning if it’s still there. The thought makes her whimper against his stomach as her hands tug the jeans to his knees, her stocking clad feet pushing them the rest of the way off. 

The knife is in her hand before she registers reaching for it, and she sits on her lover’s hips, lips red, irises blown so only a ring of green is seen, half dressed and staring down at Kyrian. His hands settle on her hips, his breath is quick but even as he waits. A little gasp escapes him when her hand brings the flat of the knife to slide over his shoulder. The Corsair bites at her lip in concentration, and she lifts the knife, turning it, letting it sit lightly on his skin before letting it bite. A thin rail of blood swells from beneath Kyrian’s pale skin, delicate as she writes on him with the knife. It takes a minute, and then there is just the metallic scent of blood in the air around them, crimson on his skin. 

A whimper leaves her again, her hips rock gently against his, the length of him solid against her through her pants. She places the knife in Kyrian’s hand; he can play too, if he wants to. He knows that, always knows that. Leaning down, Cor’s tongue peaks out, traces one of the letters, an M, not an English M, but all the same. Her lips press to the I, and she leans back up, eyes black before pressing her lips to his. The kiss is hard, all teeth and tongue, the need to take the breath from the other overwhelming both time lords for the moment. Kyrian has the Corsair on her back before she notices. Sitting between her legs on his knees, he pulls from the kiss, surveys her with feigned indifference.

“So many places to mark you.” His voice is gravelly, and the Corsair whines. She’s never been a talker in bed. Not really, not when it comes to this. “Just – choose a place, a thing. Touch me.”

“So demanding.” Kyrian leans down, lips and teeth catching one of her nipples through the lace, making her arch and cry out. One of her hands threads into his hair, she isn’t sure if she’s holding him there are telling him to pull away. Her skin burns with the need for his touch, for the bite of the blade against it. 

“Kyrian.”

“Hush, pet. So impatient.” Chuckling, he concentrates on her side, not bothering with teasing her, letting the gentle pain calm her heated impatience. He works at her for long moments, listening to the little gasps, and moans that fall from her lips. He watches the way the muscles under her skin tense and release. For all that she is quiet with him, the Corsair sings in different ways. 

The same word has been etched into her side, meticulously, perfectly, leaving the dark woman shivering under him. The knife comes up to her line of vision, lightly tipped in red from them both. Her legs thread around his hips and she bucks against him. She’s so wet she wonders if he can feel it through the layers of kickers and light trousers. It is a fanciful thought chased from her mind when he slips the knife under the strap of her bra. It snaps away from her, the end catching her cheek and making her hiss. 

His lips are there a moment later, soothing the little hurt, trailing her jaw, tracing her neck, biting at her pulse point hard enough to make her cry out. The hand in his hair fists and pulls, free hand coming to grab at his shoulder, nails biting into his skin, making a pattern of half moons. Kyrian laughs, blows on the bite, delighting in how the Corsair’s eyes flutter shut. 

“Again. Another mark.” She isn’t hesitant in the demand, and her lover complies. The bite is just as sharp, just as light on the flesh of her breast. He traces an obscene word into her skin, and it makes her cheeks heat up, her breath catch. Kyrian makes another series of cuts on her right shoulder, across from the ones on her right breast, just under her tattoo. 

When those are done, blood welling, his face returns to hers. Their kiss is a rush, teeth clack, tongues are bitten, and his hands rip at her pants and knickers. Her hands shove him away, not wanting him gone, but needing the space to fold her legs up and get the pants off. 

“Get your pants off.” She mutters against his chest, biting at it when his hand insinuates itself between her legs, fingers finding her entrance within moments. He isn’t gentle about thrusting into her, doesn’t have to be as he ignores her direction and instead makes her scratch at his back, thrusting into her in a shallow mimicry of what he wants to do. He doesn’t notice that she’s taken the knife until he feels it on either side of his body, hears the rip of cloth as she takes care of his boxer shorts. Then her hand is on him, hot, tight, pulling at him in the way she knows he likes. 

“Stop fucking around, Kyrian. Want you.” This is the most vocal he’s had his Time Lady in their bed. He won’t waste it. Removing his fingers from her heat, not bothering to wipe away the slick on his hand, he grabs at her thighs, gets her where he wants her, slaps at her hand and drives home. One thrust, hard, filling her, making her cry out so happily as she shifts to meet him. There is nothing like that in the universe. 

It takes a few thrusts, hard, untimed; they want this too badly after the few minutes of playing, before they settle into a rhythm. Quick snaps of his hips, driving his cock hard into her, making her walls clench around him, the color never leaving her face as he looks down at her. Kyrian dips his head, laps at the blood left on his words, hand squeezing the “mine” on her side. It makes the skin break again, sends a violent shiver through his lover, her legs curling around his hips, restricting his movement so he’s rutting into her. 

Cor’s fingers trace the mine on his shoulder, press against the scabbed over letters until they bleed again and then trace new words with the blood provided. Their bodies are a mess of blood and sweet, the only sounds in the room harsh breathing and the slap of their skin against on another. 

They bite, kiss, push and pull at one another frantically. He can feel the way she’s clinging to him that the Corsair is going to come soon. He can see it in the way the flush of color on her cheeks is sliding down her neck. His own orgasm isn’t far off, he’s taut, ready, but refuses to go before she does. Shoving his hand between them, his thumb finds her clit, flicks at it roughly, strains to keep time with his hips. It’s all white noise, her moans, her cries. One singular thought is on his mind; get her to come, to feel the grasping rush of warmth and to fill her up with his release moment after. 

She’s just so stubborn; he knows she’s hanging by a thread. What does she need? He pushes at her mind, walls no longer up when they’re together, her crumbling at the first touch. He see’s it. What she wants. What she won’t voice. Her mind shoves at his, seeks out the pleasure centers to drive him into confusion and mindlessness. 

He resists long enough to lean down and bite the mark on her breast, proclaiming her a slut, his slut, his lover his, before he capitulates to her desire. His hips buck against hers and he barely hears her screaming for him moments later. The taste of her blood sings against his tongue, sound of her rings in his ears as he comes down off his high. 

She lies panting under him, fingers releasing their hold on his shoulders, making him wince. She’d broken the skin with her nails. But it would be gone in a few days. Shifting yet not leaving her, Kyrian lays on his side, pulling the Corsair with him.

“Got what you wanted?”

“Oh yes.”


End file.
